Present Perfect
by Oleander's One
Summary: The Arl and Arlessa of Amaranthine celebrate their anniversary with some missing friends, courtesy of some present ones.


**Present Perfect**

"Why doesn't anyone ever say something before I eat too much?" Mena Theirin dropped heavily into the padded chair on her side of the large desk she shared with Alistair in their office at Vigil's Keep. Books and scrolls were stacked haphazardly at arm's length around Mena's workspace, forming a wobbly bulwark around her mess. One green eye squinted at Alistair from between two listing towers.

"Which parts of 'a joint is not a portion' or 'Maker, woman, breathe!' were unclear?" Alistair watched as a parchment projectile cleared the fortifications only to fall short of the target—himself, presumably. "Fortunate that you're a mage, and don't need to aim a _real_ weapon."

Mena looked up at Varel, who had helped them carry their anniversary presents up to the office after the dinner celebration. "Don't reptiles bask in the sun to help them digest big meals?"

"I've not the acquaintance of any, Commander, excepting the former Arl. If it helps, I never personally witnessed that sort of behavior on his part." The Seneschal handed Mena a last few documents that required her signature; she and Alistair were due to leave for their short holiday the next morning.

Alistair frowned at the lumpy, vaguely rectangular item sitting in the center of his blotter, and the square package next to Mena's mug of cold tea. "Do you remember these from when we left for dinner, love?" Alistair asked.

She shook her head and looked again to Varel, who did the same. "Those were not here when I dropped off the stack of purchase requests earlier, Commander."

"We three are the only ones who have keys to the office." Mena inspected the two parchment-wrapped packages. "There are smears of moisture on the surface. Varel, would you mind asking Nathaniel to join us?"

"Not at all, Commander." He left and returned shortly, the taciturn archer in tow.

Nathaniel examined both parcels closely. Finally he straightened and fished a small vial of antidote from an inner pocket, handing it to Alistair. "If it is poison, it is an unfamiliar one. Still, some precautions may be wise."

Alistair tried to hand it back. "I'll open the package, Nathaniel."

"You haven't spent the last ten years studying poisons and building up immunities to everything you could find, Alistair." Nathaniel smiled wryly.

"What's the antidote for, then?"

"That is for what I couldn't find." Nathaniel gingerly probed the moist surface of the object on Alistair's blotter. He looked at the residue on his finger for a moment, rubbed it between finger and thumb, and finally wiped off his fingers with a look of mild disgust.

"Poison?" Mena asked nervously.

"Drool." He poked at Mena's parcel briefly, then took his leave. "Commander. Second. Seneschal."

"I think I will take my leave as well, my lady, my lord. Enjoy your evening; I'll ensure that everything is prepared for your departure." Varel bowed slightly and followed Nathaniel out.

Two sets of eyes turned to the massive dog napping on the hearthside rug. "Anything you wish to add at this point, Partha?" Alistair asked. The mabari's mouth fell open and he began to snore loudly.

"He reminds me of you more and more each day, my love." Mena laughed and started unwrapping her damp packet as Alistair did his.

"The sparkling repartee or the droo—oh." He trailed off.

"Are you all right, Ali ..." Mena, too, broke off as she viewed the contents. She picked up the length of knotted yarn in shaking fingers.

"Is that a cat collar or part of a bell pull?"

"It's a bracelet. Jowan and I, we …" She swallowed thickly. "We made each other knotted bracelets from bits of frayed robe trim and old drape edging—whatever we could find, the uglier the better. I was so hurt when he left that I pitched mine into the bushes outside the Tower as I left with Duncan. I regretted it almost before we got off the boat." She wiped her eyes and nodded at the rough object cradled in Alistair's hands. "Is that the mabari d—_statue_ that Eamon gave you when you were young?"

Alistair nodded slowly. "I lost it when I was seven or so. Maybe Partha found it when we there during the Blight? Why wouldn't he have returned it then?"

"We weren't on the best of terms with Eamon at that point, what with him trying to push you onto the throne, and with what … what happened with Jowan." Mena shook off the melancholy and glanced at the huge mabari again. "I suppose one of our companions held onto them? How did they know to send them back?"

Alistair shrugged. "Well, he spends most of his time asleep, maybe he can speak when in the Fade? Chats them up over tea and demons? Say, what's this?" He slid a second piece of parchment out from under the wrappings, unfolded it and read.

_Too soon the grooms_

_F__irm but polite_

_Remove the ponies_

_From our sight_

_Dapple grey and _

_Dirty white_

_But we decide_

_Which will bite_

_And _

_Which will get apples_

"Not to put too fine a point on it, but huh?" Alistair looked at his wife in confusion. "Oh, there's something on the back: 'Go to the stables, you witless nug-huggers'. All of this? Your fault."

"All I did was teach her to read. How was I to know the poet's heart that beat in that tattooèd breast? And now she's got me doing it." Mena rubbed her temples. "First assault by rhyme, then forced ambulation. I'm going to get that dwarf."

oOo

The stables were cool and dim, with the quiet rustle of great animals breathing, shifting their weight, twitching and switching their tails at biting flies.

"You know what's quite nice as a digestif?" Mena asked as she peered into the near stalls.

"Mm. She did say the stables and not the tack shed, right?"

"Almost anything but the smell of horse crap, that's what."

Alistair started up the ladder to the mow. Near the top he yipped and almost missed his footing. "Watch who you're pinching, Pinchy!"

Mena grinned up at him from a middle rung. "Do you want me to stop?"

A hint of a blush pinked his cheeks and ears. "Well, I don't suppose I can _order_ you to; you do outrank me."

A miniature stone figure stood on a folded piece of parchment on an upturned crate. A green gem on a long chain was draped over one outstretched hand, a tiny rolled-up scroll in the other. Minute red crystals glittered where they were embedded in the massive shoulders. There was a hint of curve at the waist, a suggestion of rounded breasts; Alistair stared in astonishment at the wee Shale. "I always thought that she was more girl-shaped than the others we found in the Deep Roads. Not that I would've mentioned that—I like my innards on the inside, thank you very much."

Alistair fixed the necklace around Mena's neck and smiled. "I think this is for you; it matches your eyes." He cupped her cheek in his warm hand. "That's what I noticed first, you know. Not your staff, not your robes, but your eyes. So it's your fault that I asked you such a daft question right off; the fault of those lovely eyes."

Mena kissed the palm of his hand, then lifted the round pendant to look at it closely. "I think it's that wonderful emerald I found in that store in Orzammar. The one with that squeaky little shopkeep who was being bullied by the Carta. Some strapping, great-hearted man of my acquaintance came to his rescue, lucky for him."

Alistair straightened and puffed out his chest a bit as he unrolled the scroll. "'I have noticed that it has invested some meaning in the small effigies that it carries. I have further noticed that it lacks the superior version of the one particular semblance, and contents itself with the inferior. I am hardly surprised. This, then, because it has shown itself not entirely devoid of taste.' Hm. I thought I sniffed a compliment in there, but it went away."

"It just attached itself to me, is all." Mena grinned and plucked the scroll out of his fingers. "There is a bit for me too. 'For Mena Renet Amell Theirin, my friend.' Oh, Shayle." Mena sniffed and waved at the crate. "Go read that other thing, you."

"I saw Mena crying, I saw Mena cry—hey, what did I say about the pinching?" Alistair smirked and unfolded the sheet.

_I told the mage that Howes neither rhyme nor riddle, but he is unremitting. Very well, then: look _

_in the__ prison, in the cell in which I was kept. You may take it upon yourselves to solve the riddle _

_of whether the__ parcel is on the stool or the floor. Do not cheat._

Mena lifted her arms. "Carry me across the compound?"

"You ate twice your body weight in lamb an hour ago. I'm not Sten, you kno—ow!"

oOo

"Please tell me that we didn't trap some darkspawn in here by accident two years ago." Mena peered into the small, dimly-lit prison, breathing through the sleeve of her robe.

"It can't be. The cheesemonger in Redcliffe said it was impossible to find!" Alistair hurried past his wife, all of his attention for the unwrapped round of mottled grey on the low stool.

"Perhaps I'll just give you two a few moments alone." Mena snatched up the box and the slip of parchment from the floor next to the stool and hurried back outside. In the box were various silk garments underneath a pair of the daintiest, pinkest, featheriest bedroom slippers that she had ever dreamt existed in the minds of men or Orlesian beldames. They were _glorious_.

After greeting the same guardsman three times in the course of his circuit around the courtyard, Mena girded herself and ducked back in to extract her husband. "Why did you wrap it back up? It would make an excellent fumigant."

"Are you insane? It's a Fourme de Firmin; the rats would be all over that."

"Nearby, perhaps—I doubt it can kill on contact. They might make it a few steps."

"For snarky mates, no backrubs wait." Alistair grinned at the fuzzy little mules and poked at the silk. "Is that a dress or something?"

"Or something. I'll, uh, show you that later, dear. Let's see the next riddle."

**GO TO THE KITCHEN**

"Sometimes I love that man. Spirit. Dead … thing." Alistair smiled fondly. "What did Leliana have to say?"

"Ahem. Coo, coo, coo. All right. 'My dearest friends, I have missed you every day since we were parted. I wake each morning to the sights and sounds of my beloved Val Royeaux, and think that if only I could be sharing it with my precious friends, then I could ask no more of …' It goes on like that, sheets and sheets."

"Maybe later."

"Much. I mean—when we're not so tired, and can give her letter our undivided attention."

oOo

Alistair tossed the burlap-wrapped bundle up in the air a few times. "Whatever it is, it's light for such a large package." He worried the knot, finally cut the twine with his belt knife. The fabric fell open all at once, spilling dozens of socks on the counter and the floor. "Wynne, you shouldn't have," Alistair whispered, smiling.

"Hah! That was a tear; you're crying too."

"Was not. I got wool fuzz in my eye."

Mena held up a sock stitched with a tiny A on the heel. "They're all monogrammed and ..."

"Be-griffoned, every one." Alistair shook his head in wonder. "These should be the official socks of the Wardens. Well, not these actual socks. These are mine. All mine." He hugged the pile reflexively when Mena made a move for it, but she nabbed only the small bundle of books that were packed with the socks. "Those aren't Tevinter spellbooks, are they?" he asked. "I can't believe that Wynne would approve of any magic that the Magisters might practice."

Mena sniffed. "That old _Rose of Orlais_ chestnut, probably. I've read spicier road signs. Remember, Wynne never really approved of … ah yes, here it is, the very copy I foisted on her back in the day. And two others: _Hard in Hightown_ and _Contentment in the Barracks_, by a Varric Tethras? Who is that?"

Alistair shrugged. "Probably another overheated Orlesian lady. Wynne enclosed a note: 'Alistair, may these keep your feet as warm as the memory of your kindness keeps this old woman's heart. Be well, son.' Quit gagging, you. 'Mena, if you mention my name in connection with these spells, rest assured I shall haunt your Fadescape for the remainder of your natural life. Be good, dear.'"

"Spells? _Spells?_" Mena snatched at the pieces of parchment falling from between the pages of the first Tethras book. "Notes on Shayle's procedure and recovery, primal spells I've never heard of, glyphs … Ah, Wynne, you old softie. I'm sure there is nothing that the Tower wouldn't approve, of course. Oh, it's going to take some time to make my way through these." She started to walk away, smiling dreamily.

"In all of our years together, this may be the first time that I've had occasion to say this to you, but focus please!" Alistair laughed and unfolded the parchment lying on the counter next to the socks.

"This would be how I know when Anders borrows one of my tomes. They come back with doodles on every third page." Mena tapped the lower left corner.

"What does Pounce have in his mouth?"

"Cookies, it looks like. Gingertemplars."

"Why are they bleeding?" Alistair frowned.

I have tasted

the wine

that is in

your suite

and which

Varel was

probably

saving for you

Forgive me

it is delicious

so dry

and so cold

"I think I can probably squeeze in a drop or two, now that they've run dinner off of me," Mena allowed.

oOo

"Oh, Varel. Just when I start to think that the starch goes all the way to the bone, he manages to surprise me." Mena smiled at the transformed sitting room.

Two different wines, a variety of savories and sweets, and small vases of fragrant wildflowers were laid out on their small breakfast table, which had been pushed near the fire. At each plate rested a letter, sealed with red wax, and a small package.

"Ah-hah! Another tear. I'm the better man than you after all, because I only cried that once, and that was wool fuzz anyway. From the socks."

"My love, you are _definitely_ the better man." Mena smirked and let her gaze run leisurely down his body.

Alistair cleared his throat and pointed at his eyes. "Up here, m'dear. Some wine?"

"Please." Mena broke the seal and read, nibbling on spiced almonds. "It's from Zev. He's doing well; misses the 'excitement' of running with the Wardens, he says. He … ah. Yes. Oh, um, that's about it, actually. I think I'll read the rest later." She folded the letter back up and tucked it in an interior pocket in her robe.

"Can I assume that our favorite Master Assassin was offering us _positions_ in his organization again?" Alistair raised one eyebrow and opened his own letter. "'I hope this missive finds you well, my handsome Warden, and enjoying the company of your _enamorado_. Here am I, suffering in my insufficiently frigid native clime, surrounded by scurrilously underclad young ladies and gentlemen who insist upon depriving me of the character-building exercises that I found so rewarding when in your company. Speaking of exercises, I have some suggestions that may …'" He broke off and scanned the rest of the page. "Maker's Breath!"

"They're all quite mad, you know." Mena laughed.

Alistair could only nod. "Nutters, every one. And I don't know what we would have done without them."

"I don't want to think." Mena opened her gift and squealed with delight.

"What did he send you?" Alistair asked suspiciously as he opened his own box. "Oil? Scented oil, smells nice. What is …" He flushed alarmingly and closed up the box, tying it tightly.

Mena giggled. "I daresay we received similar gifts." She rose and dropped into Alistair's lap. "Oops! Tripped."

"I probably don't tell you often enough how I appreciate your conveniently-timed bouts of clumsiness." Alistair wrapped his arms around his wife and nuzzled her hair.

"So these exercises that Zevran was referring to?"

"Hm, that is … well, you remember that special Antivan blade instruction he was giving me—_La Verdedera Destreza, _he called it. He was just wondering how I was coming along, passed along some tricks."

"Ah, of course."

"Of course." Alistair was silent for a long moment. "You're not going to tell me what he said in your letter, are you?"

"Just some instructions, is all. You know, like _your_ letter."

"So … fighting techniques?"

"Mm nnh."

"Would you … care to show me?" A slow smile lit Alistair's face.

"Mm hmm."

* * *

A/N: Written for ChampionTheWonderSnail for the CMDA ( www. darkstorm. co. uk /cmda/ ) mid-year story swap. She's a tremendously talented writer – I highly recommend her work!

Apologies (many, many apologies) to Graeme Edge of The Moody Blues and William Carlos Williams.


End file.
